


Dream of the Ones Who Came Before

by TriffidsandCuckoos



Category: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: During Movie, Gen, Post-Movie(s), Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:39:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriffidsandCuckoos/pseuds/TriffidsandCuckoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>This is no place to honour Boromir of Gondor, far away from his White City and his beloved people.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Yet if Aragorn has learnt one thing from the life given to him, it is that mourning is seldom granted its proper place.<br/></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream of the Ones Who Came Before

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StarlingGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlingGirl/gifts).



> Prompt: _Aragorn's eulogy for Boromir (private or not)_
> 
> Title from Annie Lennox's _Into the West_.

This is no place to honour Boromir of Gondor, far away from his White City and his beloved people.

Yet if Aragorn has learnt one thing from the life given to him, it is that mourning is seldom granted its proper place.

He is adamant that Boromir should not be buried here, amidst the corpses of his foes and far away from home. Already knowing that their route hence will not take them down the river, he is more than willing to sacrifice one of the elven boats to send Boromir on his way.

The body had been heavy, yet Aragorn had refused to summon Legolas or Gimli for aid in bearing it. This had seemed to be his own burden; something owed to the fallen. At first he had not wished to disturb Boromir from his semblance of rest beneath the trees, blade still clutched in his hand; only with every moment Merry and Pippin were borne further hence, and it would be little thanks for his sacrifice were they to delay in saving those he had died to protect.

Words had not come easily, there on the shore. Too often Aragorn had found himself with a talent for the craft, so that now all the meaning and splendour that should have spilled forth hid from his seeking mind. 

Without an audience, it seems, there is little to be said.

“You did not die in disgrace,” he says, for he feels that is the most important thing. Should any try to question the man, for all his flaws, he died as a warrior and a protector. Nothing less. 

He thinks of the man he had grown to know, through words both soft and heated. Boromir was not a man who would have wanted this quiet reverie: he would have wanted feasting, and drinking, and anything but silence. More than that, however: he would not have wanted to be alone. To Boromir, his people had always remained at the forefront of his mind.

The Ring had twisted that most fine of allegiances and purposes into corruption. All down the river, Aragorn had watched Boromir slip away, and perhaps known that it was already too late. “Had I known sooner – ” he starts – only to let the words fall away again. Regret is of no use here, and it is not as if he had not seen the danger from the very beginning. Of them all, Boromir had entered the Fellowship with the greatest anger and purpose. Not for himself, but for those for whom he stood.

In the end, Aragorn might speak of Boromir’s greatness – his bravery in battle, his swordsmanship, his instinct to protect those weaker than himself – but this is not the place. When Gondor has been liberated, and the evil of Sauron vanquished, then shall Aragorn speak to their people of the great deeds of the son of Denethor.

Their people.

“I swore to you that I would not let the White City fall. I swear it again. I will defend our people to the end; I will do as you would have done. No man or woman of Gondor will suffer or die if I can prevent it.”

He bows his head in respect, yet he now feels his body tremble with the strength behind his oath.

For so long, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, has been a wanderer. As one of the Dunedain, he might come and go as he pleases, yet he is welcome nowhere for long. He has made his home in the forests and barter towns, far away from the splendour where he had once lived – before he knew that he must leave. Since then, if he has not been able to forget, then he has at least been content to allow the weight of his birth slip into obscurity. If any still believe in continued existence of the House of Elendil, they consider them broken, tarnished, perhaps even mad. Turned away from Rivendell – albeit by mutual agreement – he had grown to believe that his place would never lie in such respectable establishments. Certainly he had sought to avoid Gondor at all costs, as every sight tore at instincts he could not suppress, and none more so than the dead tree of Minas Tirith.

Then came talk of the Ring, and Elrond’s Council, and the destiny of his house fell suddenly at his door. By then, however, Aragorn had wanted none of it. The prospect of his fate had torn at him, for all that he wished to defend Frodo and the rest.

He stands here now unexpectedly at peace with himself, as he has not been for years. 

“I am thankful that you were able to see at the end what you have done for me.” Aragorn lowers himself to one knee; bows his head; allows his hand to grip the side of the boat. “You have reminded me of the duty I owe to our people. If they cannot have their steward, then perhaps they might have their king.”

As he raises his head, he catches sight of Boromir’s vambraces: dark, with the white tree clearly inscribed into the surface. Carefully, he reaches out and unbuckles them, lifting each arm reverentially to do so. They have no blood to share to bind Aragorn to his oath, and words might seem to fall too easily onto the dead. For all his skill otherwise, in the face of the changing world, Aragorn seeks something tangible.

It takes little effort to push Boromir’s boat out into the water. Still standing knee-deep in the river, Aragorn watches as the current bears the vessel along, towards the great waterfall – and perhaps, although it has little but Aragorn’s own prayers to guide it, towards Gondor. “Your days of service are over, son of Gondor. Your days of rest are upon you, and none have ever deserved them so greatly.”

Truly, there is nothing that Boromir deserves more greatly than to be returned to the arms of his people. This small hope is all that Aragorn can offer him.

\----------

In the aftermath of Sauron’s defear, and the restoration of all that had fallen in Middle Earth, Aragorn ensures that time is made to honour the dead. For now there is at least the hope of time without fear, and hence time for mourning.

He speaks of Theoden and his long kingship, now ended in the halls of the forebears he had so admired; of Haldir and the Elves’ final alliance with Men; of Denethor, even, caretaker of the city before madness had taken its course, beside Saruman and Grima and Smeagol and all the rest whose lives had been twisted by the darkness over the horizon. To exclude any would seem wrong, therefore he includes all.

Most of all, to the people of Gondor, he speaks of Boromir.

It is a fine line to walk, given the shadow of Denethor’s grief and Faramir’s proud stewardship at Aragorn’s side. Yet it is Faramir who leads the service; who insists on hearing Elessar’s stories of his brother. They exchange tales, both for the people and for themselves: the taking of Osgiliath, the passage through Moria, youthful years in the Guard and older days walking in fellowship. Aragorn tells of Boromir’s last stand more times than can be numbered, until his throat runs dry, and Faramir clings to every word. 

Whilst he knows that he can never replace Boromir, Aragorn is satisfied that he does the dead a further service in providing Faramir with another brother. In truth, in listening to the exploits of Gondor’s captain, he cannot help but wonder how they might have stood together in the White City, side by side.

“Very well,” Faramir tells him with a smile. “Very well indeed.”

Boromir, son of Denethor, is the only member of the Fellowship to fall on their journey; the first to succumb to the call of the Ring and the first to break free of it. 

Before his statue, Aragorn can only kneel and say what words that he can manage.

“Our people are safe because of you,” he says plainly. “Because you were here to defend them when I was not. I shall always be grateful to you for that.

“Thankyou, my brother.”

This shall be enough, he hopes, to last the years, until their statues might guard this city together until the end of her days.


End file.
